Reefer Dadness

The Lament of The Self-Loathing Stoner

The dishes are stacked in the sink. The dog needs to go out. The trash is piling up. The laundry has to be put in the dryer. All because you smoke too much pot.

To be nobody but yourself
In a world which is doing it’s best
day and night
To make you like everybody else
— e. e. cummings

Don’t you just hate yourself?

The dishes are stacked in the sink. The dog needs to go out. The trash is piling up. The laundry has to be put in the dryer. All because you smoke too much pot. 

You’re late with the rent. They might turn off the lights. Comcast keeps calling (Fuck Comcast!)… And now there’s dog shit on the floor.

All the bad things that happen to good people happen because they’re stoned. Everyone knows that. You get high and your world comes undone. Say goodbye to your money. Say goodbye to your time. You’re way too distracted. You’re far too unfocussed. You eat too many cookies. 

All because you smoke too much pot.

And don’t get me started on dabs… 

Whatever goes wrong in my life, I can always blame pot. Sometimes I suspect that these small failures and too many undones are the natural distance between my good intentions and my poor performance; more often however, I simply tell myself that I smoke too much weed. As if doing these last few bong hits has anything to do with the fact that the dog just shit on the floor! There’s a constant mewling voice in the front of my head that I’ve learned to happily ignore, and I’m not alone in that selective perspective. Over the years I’ve realized that many of my fellows potheads feel precisely the same way. We are self-loathing stoners and, truthfully, we are far more amused (and amusing) than tortured. 

The litter box needs cleaning. The grass needs mowing. The walk needs shoveling, and you’re doing dabs.

Don’t you just hate yourself?

Not every pothead is a self-loathing stoner, just like every Catholic is not riddled with crippling guilt. I’m sure there are squadrons of self-confident tokers who know they do nothing wrong – never have and never will – and never question the basic premise either. If you’re one of those people, you are blessed. But there’s a large gang of bud folk who also know they’ve done nothing wrong – never have and never will – but nevertheless must contend with a nagging little whisper that rises like smoke from the prefrontal cortex where all the guilt grows, an annoying pissy voice that insists the cat litter needs changing, the floor needs a sweep, and the library wants the books back that you didn’t mean to keep. 

You’re always late, you procrastinate, you don’t pay attention… And remember it later when I say it again: You don’t have much retention.

You forget to remember but remember you forgot, then you forgot the whole thing because you smoke too much pot. 

Don’t you just hate yourself?

The self-loathing stoner is a common phenomena that exists for far too many reasons – not just because the lawn needs a mowing while you binge-watch the Star-Trek Next Gen marathon… again. It exists because because everyone around you agrees: You smoke too much weed!

Your parents. Your teachers. Your wife. Your husband. Your boyfriend. Your girlfriend. Your uncle. Your aunt. Your doctor. Your lawyer. The police and the government. They all know what’s best for you: 

Maybe you should put that bong down!

Maybe you’re getting too high!

Maybe you should just slow down!

Or maybe – just maybe – you should just stop!

Okay. That’s not going to happen.

I’ve had this nagging little voice in the front of my head for a very long time, and I’ve paid it no attention. But once, about ten years ago, I listened briefly, and I didn’t smoke pot for two and a half years. I was loath to leave my beloved marijuana behind, but I thought it was for the best. Searching for a silver lining, I looked forward to putting my house in order, literally and figuratively, when I finally got past the distraction of weed.

Two and a half years later, when I went back to the bud with a vengeance, someone asked me how I had felt.

“Bored,” I said without hesitation. “Very bored.”

After 30 months of flying straight as an arrow the dishes were still dirty, the dog still shat on the floor, the trash still climbed to the ceiling and the cooties still needed to magically float to from the washer to the dryer.

I still had no money. I still had no time. I cut down on cookies (but I counted that as a loss). 

So. What did I learn from not smoking marijuana for two and a half years? I learned that pot does not make me lazy. I am lazy. In fact, I have a talent for lazy.

Don’t you just hate yourself?

Because, left to our own devices, we might very well decide that we smoke just enough weed – not too much, not too little, just enough! But they won’t leave it alone. Clean the bathroom! Go to the store! Where’s the car keys? Wash the floor!  Jeez! Hell is just other people.

Or the Government. Hell is the Government telling you what to do. Despite the fact that fifteen states have legalized the adult use of marijuana and thirty-five more have passed medical provisions, cannabis continues to be federally illegal, a Schedule 1 drug, on par with crack and LSD. The were over 500,000 arrests for cannabis-related crimes in the U.S. in 2019. That’s Hell too. 

The simple truth is there’s nothing wrong with smoking marijuana – nothing!  And that little voice in the front of your head is telling you bald-faced lies. Don’t listen to it. And don’t listen to those hellish otter people who don’t know what they’re talking about – you know who they are, Blaze on with abandon, my friends, and understand that you are part of a larger narrative; indeed, you are the hero of the story and you arena the right side of history. And to that small-minded minority of cretins who would continue the war on weed, who would preserve their option to  push and pull and squeeze and lie – I have one final question. Seriously:

Don’t you just hate yourself?


Lazy Rick Cusick

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